I close my eyes and see All my regrets are vermilion, They are not quite burning, And not quite bleeding either, My face senses a strange heat, And I open my eyes to it, There is snow on the ground But flames in the trees, A wolf howls in front of me, Here everything is beautiful And nothing is worth saving.

* * * * *

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.

We have cried in our despair That men desert, For some trivial affair Or noisy, insolent, sport, Beauty that we have won From bitterest hours; Yet we, had we walked within Those topless towers Where Helen walked with her boy, Had given but as the rest Of the men and women of Troy, A word and a jest.

The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair, Once on a time fell upon evil days. From hearing oft herself discussed with praise, There grew within her heart the longing rare To see herself; and every passing air The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze. Full oft she sought this end by devious ways, But sought in vain, so fell she in despair. For none within her train nor by her side Could solve the task or give the envied boon. So day and night, beneath the sun and moon, She wandered to and fro unsatisfied, Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf, And made a glass wherein she saw herself.

II

Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self, Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought, Commanded that the skillful wight be brought That she might dower him with lands and pelf. Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf And up the hills and on the downs they soughtHim who so well and wondrously had wrought; And with much search found and brought home the elf, But he put by all gifts with sad replies, And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine: “Oh, queen, I want no gift but thee,” he said. She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes, Gave him her hand, low murmuring, “I am thine,” And at the morrow’s dawning they were wed.

The limbs of the fertile city spring out And blossom and rub, Fingers keep moving along lovers’ backs To make pretend explorations, Though they know every vertebra there, In other rooms, mouths open to share Breaths when there is nothing more to say, I look for a cool abode of bricks To abide by and find a little night to hold In the shadow of this bright day, A relief for me because the night is a fine time To be an isolate untouched and alone.

* * * * *

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.

listening to
the moon train
passing beyond
the bart tracks
while it rains
that lone
lonely whistle
i hear
on wakeful nights
without you
i sink deep
into these
soft warm waters
running my hands
along the contours
of my wet
body, as i imagine
you might…if you
could…if you
wanted to
as i sink
deeper
into the warm
wet and watch
the play of patterns
thrown by candles
onto the ceiling
above me

Chansonette Buck spent her childhood “on the road” as stepdaughter of a Black Mountain poet, living all over the American West, in England, and in Spain. She holds the PhD in English from the University of California, Berkeley, where she concentrated on 20th-century poetry and poetics and wrote a dissertation on childhood trauma as the source of William Carlos Williams’s poetic obsessions. She has a BFA in painting from Massachusetts College of Art, and has won awards for her visual art, her poetry, and her teaching. Chapters of her memoir Unnecessary Turns: Growing Up Beat have appeared in Why We Ride: Women Writers on the Horses in Their Lives (Seal Press, May 2010) and Polarity eMagazine (Fall 2010). Her poems have appeared online and in print, including a feature in the journal tinfoildresses 2012. Her first chapbook, blood oranges (NightBallet Press, 2011), was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Berkeley with her family, her boa constrictor, and way too many cats and dogs.

Why should I be wondering How you would look in black velvet and yellow? in orange and green? I who cannot remember whether it was a dash of blue Or a whirr of red under your willow throat– Why do I wonder how you would look in hummingbird feathers?

The Colored Soldiersby Paul Laurence Dunbar[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]If the muse were mine to tempt it And my feeble voice were strong, If my tongue were trained to measures, I would sing a stirring song. I would sing a song heroic Of those noble sons of Ham, Of the gallant colored soldiers Who fought for Uncle Sam!

In the early days you scorned them, And with many a flip and flout, Said “these battles are the white man’s And the whites will fight them out.” Up the hills you fought and faltered, In the vales you strove and bled, While your ears still heard the thunder Of the foes’ increasing tread.

Then distress fell on the nation And the flag was drooping low; Should the dust pollute your banner? No! the nation shouted, No! So when war, in savage triumph, Spread abroad his funeral pall– Then you called the colored soldiers, And they answered to your call.

And like hounds unleashed and eager For the life blood of the prey, Sprung they forth and bore them bravely In the thickest of the fray. And where’er the fight was hottest, Where the bullets fastest fell, There they pressed unblanched and fearless At the very mouth of hell.

Ah, they rallied to the standard To uphold it by their might; None were stronger in the labors, None were braver in the fight. From the blazing breach of Wagner To the plains of Olustee, They were foremost in the fight Of the battles of the free.

And at Pillow! God have mercy On the deeds committed there, And the souls of those poor victims Sent to Thee without a prayer. Let the fulness of Thy pity O’er the hot wrought spirits sway, Of the gallant colored soldier Who fell fighting on that day!

Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom, And they won it dearly, too; For the life blood of their thousands Did the southern fields bedew. In the darkness of their bondage, In the depths of slavery’s night; Their muskets flashed the dawning And they fought their way to light.

They were comrades then and brothers, Are they more or less to-day? They were good to stop a bullet And to front the fearful fray. They were citizens and soldiers, When rebellion raised its head; And the traits that made them worthy,– Ah! those virtues are not dead.

They have shared your nightly vigils, They have shared your daily toil; And their blood with yours commingling Has made rich the Southern soil. They have slept and marched and suffered ‘Neath the same dark skies as you, They have met as fierce a foeman, And have been as brave and true.

And their deeds shall find a record, In the registry of Fame; For their blood has cleansed completely Every blot of Slavery’s shame. So all honor and all glory To those noble Sons of Ham– The gallant colored soldiers, Who fought for Uncle Sam!

If you have revisited the town, thin Shade, Whether to look upon your monument (I wonder if the builder has been paid) Or happier-thoughted when the day is spent To drink of that salt breath out of the sea When grey gulls flit about instead of men, And the gaunt houses put on majesty: Let these content you and be gone again; For they are at their old tricks yet. A man Of your own passionate serving kind who had brought In his full hands what, had they only known, Had given their children’s children loftier thought, Sweeter emotion, working in their veins Like gentle blood, has been driven from the place, And insult heaped upon him for his pains And for his open-handedness, disgrace; Your enemy, an old foul mouth, had set The pack upon him. Go, unquiet wanderer, And gather the Glasnevin coverlet About your head till the dust stops your ear, The time for you to taste of that salt breath And listen at the corners has not come; You had enough of sorrow before death — Away, away! You are safer in the tomb.

I have written her plenty of sonnets, Odes, haikus, and when drunk Have penned prose poem apologies, These are basic, she expects them.

She delights in being a subject, Being mentioned, praised, And raised above everyone else, But heights do not bind her to me.

I have written tales without her in them, Stories of decline, decay, and ruin, Visions of rivers carrying flames, And scenes of cities turning into ash.

These I have put down and set out Because I knew at the end of writing About all these fine collapses She would be in the next room, waiting.

* * * * *

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.